


Effing the Ineffable

by Luna_wolf



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Fucks, Crowley is unbelievably soft, History, M/M, Pining, Vignette, why Crowley hates the 14th century
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 19:54:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19911292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_wolf/pseuds/Luna_wolf
Summary: Previously Crowley had thought that the odds of Aziraphale attending an orgy were roughly equivalent to the likelihood that a polar bear would take a pleasure cruise down the Nile, but now he had to reevaluate his assumptions.13 vignettes about Crowley and Aziraphale's relationship throughout the centuries. (discussion of explicit themes, no actual smut)





	Effing the Ineffable

1.  
Crowley had been curious about the angel in the garden. He wondered about the sort of angel who would receive a posting to Earth. The newly-created Earth had been a matter of interest for most angels (and demons as well - at that point the distinction between the two was quite new), but very few of them were selected for a position on there, and even fewer would look as at home here as this particular angel did.

Crowley’s interest had only deepened after he’d spoken to the angel and discovered that he’d given away his flaming sword to the human man and woman who’d been banished from the Garden. The angel couldn’t refuse to banish them - that wouldn’t be in the angelic job description - but he’d made sure they didn’t go away empty-handed into the wilderness. Crowley liked that. 

Crowley had already decided that he was a man (well, demon) of the world. He’d seen it all, which wasn’t hard given the fact that there wasn’t all that much of it to see it this point. He was jaded and set in his ways. But this angel, this Aziraphale, intrigued him. 

An angel capable of independent thought. That was someone that Crowley would like to get to know. 

_Wouldn’t that be something, if I did the right thing and you did the wrong thing?_

2.  
Crowley wasn’t sure when he’d gone from being curious about the angel to actually looking forward to seeing him. 

Maybe it had been around the time that unfortunate young man, Mary’s son, had died. As Crowley understood it, the whole event was a real coup for Heaven, something they thought would usher in a new age, maybe even kickstart Armageddon. They were wrong; God, as usual, had not explained Her ineffable plan to any of them, and the armies of Heaven and Hell were disappointed to hear they had to wait even longer.

The humans, though, didn’t know any of that, and the small knot of them gathered below the poor unfortunate on the cross seemed quite distraught about it.

Crowley looked at Aziraphale’s face as the poor young man writhed in pain on the cross. He wondered if the angel would share the sense of celebration that the rest of Heaven clearly felt about the event, but instead he saw that Aziraphale wore a look of profound sorrow.

Crowley realized that he respected Aziraphale. He had not respected anyone for a very long time. 

3  
Despite what one might reasonably assume, it was Aziraphale who first brought up the topic of the pleasures of the flesh. It had been over lunch in Alexandria sometime during the third century.

It was fairly early on in their history of getting lunches together and they were both still a bit uneasy about the prospect. Aziraphale had suggested some wine to lighten the mood, and then had proceeded to get deeply and profoundly drunk. Hence the revelation about sex with humans, which drunken Aziraphale had mentioned without an ounce of shame, seemingly regarding it as akin to sampling a new local delicacy. 

Crowley tried to keep his face neutral. He fanned himself lazily; even in the shade, the heat was oppressive. “Wasn’t there a whole thing about that? Angels consorting with humans?” Crowley asked. 

There had been, and it had ended with an ark, a flood, the near extinction of the human race, and a very lonely unicorn. 

Aziraphale waved vaguely, slurring his words slightly. “No, no, ‘t was the children that, er, happened, the Nephi- the necro-” the angels’ eyes narrowed in concentration. “The Nephilim! That’s it. No children, no problem!” 

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “And how do you manage that?”

Aziraphale beamed, swaying slightly. “Just stick with ones who haven’t got a uterus.” 

That hung in the air for a moment before Aziraphale continued, “‘T’s really quite fun. Terrible danger of muscle cramp, though, I’m not sure what the Almighty was thinking when She designed the whole thing.” Then he added as an afterthought, “Nothing quite like a good orgy though.” Aziraphale said this with a faraway look in his eyes while sipping his wine delicately. 

Crowley absorbed that. Previously he’d thought that the odds of Aziraphale attending an orgy were roughly equivalent to the likelihood that a polar bear would take a pleasure cruise down the Nile, but now he had to reevaluate his assumptions. 

Crowley himself had had sex with more than his fair share of mortals throughout the centuries. It was practically in the demonic job description, seducing humans. He found he didn’t have much of a taste for it, not because it wasn’t pleasurable in some respects but simply because when Crowley slept with a human felt a bit like a shepherd might feel fucking one of his sheep. And he heartily agreed with Aziraphale about the danger of muscle cramp. 

Sex, though, with someone he could truly relate to, that might be something altogether different. Crowley found himself staring at the figure across from him (who had just spilled wine on his taupe toga and was muttering about it being impossible to get out) and wondered what it might be like to have sex with an angel. 

Crowley pushed the idea out of his mind almost immediately and refused to think about it for approximately another millennium. 

4.  
Crowley wasn’t sure when he’d fallen in love with Aziraphale, but he did know when he’d _realized_ that he’d fallen in love. It had been during the fourteenth century.

Crowley despised the fourteenth century. It had been miserable and cold, with a serious lack of good restaurants or interesting new technological marvels. It tells you something when the main highlight of an entire century is the invention of knitting.

Then there had been the Black Death, which had wiped out half the human population of Europe. Crowley did not like to remember the years he spent wandering from deserted village to deserted village, the silence broken only by the low moans of those dying with no one to look after them. Dogs tore at the bloated and blackened corpses in the street. Children, their parents long dead, wandered from house to house crying with hunger. 

Crowley didn’t see how anything that he or any other demon could possibly dream up would ever be worse than this. The daily events on Earth made Hell itself look like paradise. 

Crowley spent a lot of the fourteenth century getting blind drunk. 

One day at a pub he heard a man talking about a monastery in the east which still took in the sick and dying. Most of the monks had perished and the rest had fled from fear of contagion, but the abbot remained and cared for the ill. It was said that no person taken into his care ever died from the plague. He was a saintly man, the traveler said, his eyes shining, and man with the face of an angel.

That caught Crowley’s attention, as well as the abbot’s name - Father Fell, a very unusual name indeed. 

Aziraphale had never been very creative when it came to creating aliases. Crowley set out at once. 

Walking on holy ground was never a pleasant experience for a demon, but Crowley was curious enough to endure the discomfort. He waited outside the gates of the monastery with the throngs of sick people awaiting entry until he could send word to the abbot himself. 

It wasn’t long before Aziraphale himself rushed out. The angel looked surprised but then welcomed Crowley warmly. 

“I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer, but I was just about to fix up a nice stew. It’s almost dinner time for the patients.” Aziraphale said, leading him past cot after cot. He seemed to have converted the entire monastery into a large infirmary. 

Aziraphale remained in constant motion during their dinner. Crowley sat at the small table with his untouched bowl of thin soup, his entire body burning from the wrongness of being on hallowed ground, and watched as Aziraphale miracled the bowls into filling with stew and then settling themselves into neat rows on a cart. Aziraphale explained that he had come here to perform a blessing for the original abbot of the monastery, but the poor man had died before Aziraphale had arrived. Then the plague had struck, and you understood how it was, didn’t you Crowley? He couldn’t just leave these people. Most of them only needed someone to nurse them through the worst of their illness and they’d be right as rain, but the other humans were too terrified of contagion.

So they came here or were brought here, and Aziraphale took care of them. 

It helped that he was an angel and could perform miracles and didn’t strictly require sleep, but even still, Crowley noticed the dark circles under his eyes and the profound weariness in his every movement.

Crowley found himself press-ganged into pushing the cart of soup bowls into the infirmary. Aziraphale brought a bowl to each patient, spooning the broth into the mouths of those too weak to eat themselves. He spoke to each patient who was well enough to speak, and he laid cool towels on the foreheads of those lost in fever. Crowley noticed the whisper of a small miracle being performed every time Aziraphale touched someone, and he knew that the remarkable recovery rate at the monastery was not simply due to Aziraphale’s knowledge of germ theory. 

What was it like, to love like that? To be loved like that? Crowley could not take his eyes off Aziraphale.

Aziraphale returned to his side. Thoughts whirled in Crowley’s mind, but he opted to say none of them. Instead, he blurted out “Don’t suppose you have much time for orgies in a place like this?”

Aziraphale gave him a look that could have ignited firewood. “Do I look like I have time for that sort of thing right now? Now stop talking nonsense and help me wash these linens.”

Crowley followed, pleased to discover that “washing linens” meant “miracling away unpleasant stains” rather than actually getting his hands dirty. 

He tried a different tack. “Head office is going to be very impressed with you, securing all these souls.”

Another glare. “When my side does it it’s called _saving souls_ , Crowley. But no, most of the people in here are too feverish to be pledging their souls to anyone. Though maybe I should mention it all during my next meeting with Gabriel,” he added as an afterthought. 

Crowley was baffled. “Why do this, then?”

Aziraphale looked at him as though he’d asked why birds fly or fish swim. “I couldn’t just leave them, could I?”

Crowley thought about that for a long time. 

He had almost forgotten that there were such things as kindness and mercy in the world, and yet here was this angel who had been his friend for millennia. Aziraphale didn’t do what he did out of fear or intent to flatter, but simply because he was Aziraphale. 

Crowley listened as Aziraphale chatted continually. He seemed hungry for company. He chatted about the many tasks that needed doing around the monastery, the dozens of patients who had recovered enough to leave (a source of great pride for him, if an angel can be said to experience such a sin-adjacent emotion as pride), the perennial issue of the farmers being late with their deliveries of food. This last was quite a problem, given how many patients Aziraphale had to feed, but the farmers complained that they couldn’t spare the crops or the workers.

At last Crowley could no longer endure the jacuzzi-full-of-hammers sensation of being on consecrated ground. He said as much to Aziraphale, who seemed horrified at himself. “I’m so sorry, Crowley, I should have realized. I’ll see you out.”

Crowley, who felt much the way a lobster does when it is being boiled alive, shrugged vaguely. 

At the door, Aziraphale said, “It was a pleasure having you come by. See you in a few decades or so?” 

Crowley mumbled in reply, relishing the relief of returning to unconsecrated ground. 

The next morning Aziraphale would open the same door to see a cart filled with sacks upon sacks of grain and piles of vegetables, enough to feed all of his patients for at least a fortnight. Tucked in the corner was a small note: This one’s on me. - Crowley. 

______

Crowley had never been delusional enough to think that Aziraphale would ever love him back. Aziraphale was an angel, he was a demon; their touch would probably burn the other. Besides, if Aziraphale could love at all, it would be only in the most general way. And too, Crowley probably wouldn’t be his type. No reason to spoil several thousand years of friendship with such an awkward exchange. Their head offices would be upset, to say the least, and that was an experience that Crowley wanted to spare the angel. 

And so Crowley had buried the love he felt for Aziraphale the way that a murderer buries an incriminating corpse in his backyard. 

5.  
Living amongst humans for so long meant that, inevitably, you became partial to some of them. And, just as inevitably, they died - often young, often horribly. The humans that Crowley and Aziraphale got to know, those who had unique relationships with Heaven or Hell, were more likely on average to die both young and horribly, and this made things much harder. It was a feeling that Crowley imagined a human might feel when a beloved pet dies, except worse. Pets generally don’t expire painfully while working for your employer. 

It was hardest on Aziraphale. He seemed to take personally the dead of every mystic and martyr who died horribly for trying to execute what they saw as the divine will. 

He was particularly upset about that Joan of Arc. He’d served as a lieutenant in her army and had grown quite fond of her. “I was so looking forward to seeing what she’d go on to accomplish once the war was over, and then they burn her at the stake!” 

Crowley poured another glass of whiskey for the morose angel. “Nasty way to go,” he agreed. 

Aziraphale took the glass gratefully and continued, “And I can’t help thinking it’s all my fault, Crowley. I wasn’t the one who sent her the visions - that’s Gabriel’s department - but I advised her, I could have saved her. Maybe she’d still be alive if she didn’t know me.” 

“Oh come on, you know that’s not true. If it wasn’t this, it would have been something else. Humans are so damn fragile.” 

Aziraphale looked down at his drink, frowning. “It just isn’t right. Head office establishes a direct connection with her and then they let this happen?! This is her reward for resolving the war? It’s just not right.” He took a swig and then locked eyes with Crowley, suddenly solemn. “I don’t suppose your people had something to do with it?”

“No,” Crowley said. “As usual, the humans thought it up before we could.” Besides, Crowley had met the young woman once and rather liked her. You had to admire a country girl who insists on shocking everyone by dressing like a knight. 

After he had drunk deeply from his glass, Aziraphale swirled the ice cubes contemplatively. “I don’t suppose we could...try to figure out where she is, do you?” 

Though famed as afterlife destinations, neither Heaven nor Hell took in the dead. They were populated solely by the beings that had lived there since time began: angels and demons. Humans could serve one power or the other in life, but after death they passed into that other kingdom, Azrael’s realm, where none of the living could tread. As occult (or ethereal) beings, Aziraphale and Crowley could occasionally establish contact with this or that restless spirit, but given the resolve she’d shown in life, Crowley didn’t think Joan would be dragging her metaphorical feet before moving on to whatever came next. 

“I don’t think we should, angel.” Crowley replied. It was only much later he realized that the angel had said we, as though they were a team of some sort. 

There wasn’t much you can say to make such a loss all right again, but you can sit with the one who has endured the loss and let them know that they aren’t alone. And this is what Crowley did. 

Eventually around dawn, he put one very drunk angel to bed. 

6.  
It hadn’t been until rather late in history that Crowley had allowed himself to actually get emotionally invested in particular humans. One he’d grown rather fond of was, by some fluke of fate, also surnamed Crowley. Edward Alexander Crowley, to be exact, though he eventually changed it to Aleister Crowley as his occult experimentations deepened. The elder Crowley liked to believe that the human had wanted their initials to match, and he viewed the younger Crowley as a cross between a protegee and a younger sibling. 

The younger Crowley’s death hadn’t been a surprise - the man had been quite fond of heroin, not to mention summoning demons and frequenting questionable brothels. One might say it was a miracle that he had lived as long as he had, except for the fact that neither of the Crowleys dealt in miracles. 

Regardless, the original Crowley didn’t leave his house for a week after the younger’s passing. The human Crowley had been possessed of both a delightful wickedness and a unique brilliance. He had been one of the rare humans to whom Crowley had confided his true identity, and the man had actually responded with curiosity rather than horror or fear. Crowley hadn’t expected that, nor had he expected how attached he would become to the human. Crowley the younger had had a propensity for the darker shades of magic, and Crowley the elder had attempted to protect and guide him through these misadventures. Perhaps he shouldn’t have done, perhaps if he’d told that idiot human to fuck off with all of this ceremonial magic nonsense, he’d still be alive…. 

There was a knock on the door. Aziraphale stood there with a bouquet of flowers and a basket. “Hello Crowley. I heard about that young man of yours who passed recently, and I thought I’d stop by and see how you were doing. I brought crepes,” he added.

Crowley let him in. “How’d you know? Didn’t think Aleister had much to do with your lot.”

“He had quite a reputation at head office.” Crowley waited for Aziraphale to elaborate but he didn’t. Instead Aziraphale said, “Quite ironic, you both having the same name. I don’t suppose there was a family relation there?”

Crowley, who had gone several centuries without seducing any mortals at all, shook his head. 

“Ah. Probably all part of the ineffable plan, then. Meant to help you two find each other.”

“Fuck your ineffable plan, angel,” Crowley replied, but there was no malice in it, only grief. 

“Language!” Aziraphale was aghast, but then he shifted gears, bustling about Crowley’s chrome kitchen pulling out plates and utensils for the crepes. 

Despite everything, Crowley was glad to see Aziraphale. The crepes were good too, and made him realize that he hadn’t eaten in a week. Not that he needed to, strictly speaking, but it felt good. It reminded him why life was worth living, even if other lives around him ended. 

It was long dark by the time Aziraphale said, “Anyway, I’ll be getting on. Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything, yes?” Something seemed to occur to Aziraphale and he gave a chuckle. “It’s odd, we’re enemies, technically speaking, but it seems like it’s you and I who have become each other’s constant over the years.”

7.  
Aziraphale had brought Crowley to an orgy in the late seventies. As a friend, of course. 

It had been after one of their rendezvous that slowly morphed into a drinking session that had culminated with Aziraphale telling Crowley that he’d made friends with a group of humans he’d met at a gavotte club. Crowley was curious about the sort of 20th century humans who’d actually be interested in reviving a 17th century dance, and Aziraphale, with a certain glint in his eye that Crowley would call devilish if he saw the look on anyone else, told Crowley that some of them were having a party that night. A very exclusive party. 

Aziraphale ignored Crowley when the latter pointed out that he was quite experienced with orgies, thank you very much, and it was his opinion that the orgy as an art form had peaked with the late Roman republic. All orgies held since then paled in comparison. 

Crowley had spent the night surreptitiously rubbing silicone lube on people’s unattended silicone dildoes, turning used condoms inside out on fine carpets, and spreading rumors about things people’s exes had said about them around the glory hole. 

And Aziraphale….

Aziraphale flitted about like a bee among flowers. Crowley thought he knew about debauchery - it was part of the job description, lust being one of the seven deadly sins after all. There were several sexual acts that Crowley was rumored to have invented, though he’d never confirm or deny it. But all of those things, when Aziraphale did them, seemed like an act of grace. 

Perhaps it was the fact that at all times Aziraphale had an unflagging desire to see other people happy. But Crowley wholeheartedly wished he would just remove his bowtie already, given the fact that he wasn’t wearing much else. 

Watching him, Crowley felt something peculiar in his chest, the sensation that a lost mitten might feel when it dropped in the snow and separated from its mate. 

_____

At some point during the night, a rather greasy-looking mustachio’d fellow leaned in and breathed menthol smoke in Crowley’s face before asking “Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?”

“Yes, actually,” Crowley replied sourly “And I’d rather not be reminded of it.” He tilted down his dark glasses and fixed the man with his coldest serpentine stare.The man found he suddenly had pressing matters elsewhere. 

_____

Later Crowley would learn that the greasy man had tried the same line on Aziraphale a few hours later and received a hearty slap for it.

8.  
Armageddon had happened, or almost happened. Crowley wondered what it would have been like if the two of them had actually gone off to Alpha Centauri together. They would have been able to watch the distant earth explode like a fireworks show from millions of light years away, to dance among the wheeling nebulas with only each other for company. At least until the shockwaves from Armageddon radiated out from distant Earth and consumed all of creation. 

It probably wouldn’t have been too bad, although Alpha Centauri was sorely lacking in good restaurants. 

9.  
It was a beautiful night.

After dinner on the first day of the rest of their lives, they went for a stroll. Through some unspoken agreement, both of them decided they wanted to feel the wind on their faces, take in the bustle and liveliness of the city, enjoy this strange beautiful world that had almost been reduced to nothing. 

They walked for a long time in silence. Crowley shortened his steps to keep pace with the angel. He couldn’t help noticing that Aziraphale seemed preoccupied, anxious even, though they had nothing in the world (or Heaven, or Hell) to fear.

To break the uncomfortable silence, Crowley pointed over at a bench. “That’s where I tempted you into saving the world with me,” he said, grinning. “Reminded you of all the composers and bookshops and nice little restaurants you’d miss out on if you actually just let the Apocalypse happen.”

Aziraphale didn’t say anything at first. Then, in the tone of a person speaking in a dream, he raised his head and replied, “You know, I didn’t save earth for classical music or books or even restaurants. The truth is, Crowley,” he said, not quite looking at the demon. “The truth is that the world has you in it, Crowley, and for that reason it had to be saved.” 

Crowley stared at him in absolute incomprehension. 

Aziraphale looked like someone who had just admitted an embarassing personal problem. “I love you, you idiot,” he snapped finally. 

Crowley continued to stare. 

Before Armageddon, he had not imagined a world in which such a thing could be said. Reality simply wouldn’t allow it. An angel and a demon? Surely they’d bounce off each other like magnets. 

But Crowley remembered the feel of the angel’s hand in his own as they switched their faces back. Perhaps it was all the peculiar aftershocks of the near end of existence that made it possible, but here they were. Those words he had waited centuries to hear. 

“Aren’t you going to say anything?!” Aziraphale was nearly hysterical. 

There were many more things to say, several millennia’s worth of conversations, but in that moment Crowley could only think of four words. He strode up the angel, took his head in his hands, and said them before kissing him.

10.  
They had their arguments. Aziraphale was quite miffed (his words) that Crowley had been more upset about the damn car than he’d been at the prospect of their imminent discorporation at the hands of an overzealous American security guard. 

Crowley, for his part, had never gotten over the fact that Aziraphale had threatened to never talk to him again if he didn’t help the angel confront the Antichrist. 

There they were with, the armies of Heaven and Hell standing by, reality dissolving like an alka-seltzer tablet in a glass of water, and the worst threat that Aziraphale could think of was to never speak to him again.

The most grating part of the whole thing was how effective that threat was. . 

_____

Eventually, they got over both of these things. Eternity is a long time to spend together. 

11\. 

They tried it one way. Then another. Then still another, one which was quite impossible with their human bodies - but they weren’t corporeal beings, after all. Crowley had been more than a little worried that he’d be burned or would somehow harm Aziraphale, but he was pleasantly surprised to find out that his concerns were completely in vain. 

They tried it in still another fashion. With Aziraphale, Crowley found he didn’t care about the muscle cramps. 

12.  
Aziraphale thrust a package into his hands. “It’s been 6000 years to the day since we met. I thought an anniversary gift of sorts would be in order.” 

Crowley opened it. A book.

Aziraphale looked delighted. “It’s by the occult fellow you were so fond of, that Aleister Crowley. It’s first edition,” he added conspiratorially. 

Crowley couldn’t have cared less if it was the first edition or the fortieth - it was a gift from Aziraphale and that made it a treasure.

“He was very interested in Kabbalah, which is a tool that humans invented to try to understand the ineffable plan. It’s rather hard to follow, though I think they’ve had some successes. 

“Well, there’s one tidbit in particular I think you’ll find interesting. Kabbalah employs a system that assigns numerical values to certain letter - generally Hebrew. God is supposed to send messages through these numerical associations, revelations about the true nature of things. Hints at the ineffable plan, if you will. The word serpent - that’s neschek in Hebrew - has the numerical value of 358.”

Crowley recalled the feeling of slithering on his belly across the warm earth. He’d never quite forgiven God for having the idea of making him locomote without the benefit of legs in his true form, but that was neither here nor there. 

“There’s another word that also has the value of 358,” Aziraphale paused dramatically before saying, “'Messiah.' The serpent is the same as the messiah. Generations of humans puzzled about that one, but I think you and I know what it means.” He beamed with utter delight. 

Crowley thought about it. He remembered Eve’s face after she had eaten the apple, and then he thought about averting Armageddon. 

_Wouldn’t that be something, if I did the right thing and you did the wrong thing?_

The tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Ordinarily he could have gotten in quite a lot of trouble with his infernal superiors for such a suggestion, but things were different now.

Something occurred to Crowley. “It bloody well leaves you out of the picture, doesn’t it? Wouldn’t have happened the way it did without you.” 

Surprise crossed Aziraphale’s face, followed by delight and a light blush. “My dear, how good of you to notice. But really it’s just proof of what I’ve always said: evil contains within it the seeds of its own redemption, and all that occurs is part of God’s ineffable plan.” 

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Oh, fuck the ineffable plan.”

“Language, dear.” 

“Six thousand years on Earth and you still can’t bring yourself to say ‘fuck’ more than once? Alright then, eff the ineffable plan.” 

Aziraphale’s mind was already elsewhere. He wiggled his eyebrows and said “I’ll eff your ineffable plan.”

Crowley smiled wickedly, pulling him close. “Please do.” 

13.  
Perhaps it’s not so surprising they’d fall in love in the first place.

Perhaps what was most remarkable was that they would remain in love, century after century, from the beginning of the world to its end and after.

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic was inspired by my freshman year philosophy teacher, who opened far too many of his World Religions classes by saying "Let's eff the ineffable, class." Here's to you, Prof. S., bet you never thought your pearls of wisdom would end up becoming a fanfic. 
> 
> A few notes:  
> The Kabbalah numerology thing is absolutely true, and if Gaiman or Pratchett didn't know about it going into writing Good Omens I'll eat my own shoe. (a bit more info on Kabbalah here: http://dedroidify.blogspot.com/2013/10/robert-anton-wilson-on-cabala.html) 
> 
> Credit to lys-sander for the orgy idea and for giving a first read of this fic =] Thank, fren.


End file.
